Just a Little Pick-You-Up
by Makayla
Summary: Steve is an art teacher at Stark Industries non-profit Academy, who can't seem to find any luck in the love department. Bucky is an ex-marine now mature Psychology student, paying his way through college with a coffee shop job. Every time Steve orders coffee, Bucky writes a bad pick up line on his cup.
1. Chapter 1

**Just a Little Pick-You-Up**

 _Thanks to cup-of-hot-coffee for the prompt!_

 **Steve**

"So you broke it off, huh?" Clint smiled consolingly. They were standing in line at an indie book café, the kind that served coffee in mismatched mugs, played instrumental jazz and had thrift store armchairs encircling thrift store tables. It'd been Clint's idea; Steve just usually went with cheap stuff from a cart.

"Yeah," Steve sighed, "It just wasn't… working. Alex's nice but just wasn't…"

"The One. I get it." Clint commiserated by giving him a friendly clap on the shoulder, though he used his archery arm so it hurt more than he probably intended.

"Yeah, it just didn't seem fair to draw it out." Steve grimaced. "Sometimes, I think there must be something wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you, man. You just haven't found it yet. Trust me, when you do, you'll know." Clint assured him and, as a happily married man with two kids, he seemed like the type of guy who knew what he was talking about. "Now, what do you want? My treat."

"Just a latte's fine."

"Alright, how about you grab us a table?"

Steve nodded and headed towards the comfy couches . It was pretty early in the morning so he had his pick of seats. He chose one by the window to watch the people passing by.

Clint joined him a few minutes later with a smirk on his lips.

"What's with you?"

"I think the barista's a little sweet on you." Clint answered in that smug tone that came out whenever he was teasing someone. He passed Steve his latte, which was in a huge pastel green mug with white polka dots. It was balanced on a comically-small blue saucer which was entirely covered by a brown, recycle-look napkin. He could see some writing so he lifted the cup to read it.

 _Sounds like your having a bad day, so here's a cheesy line to 'pick you up':_  
 _You're like pizza - even when you're bad, you're good ;)!_

Steve couldn't help the laugh. It was so ridiculous and yet exactly what he needed right then. He looked over at the bar to check out the author and wondered how he'd missed the guy the first time round. He had warm eyes and black hair that was pulled into a 'man'-bun. It should have looked ridiculous, but somehow the guy made it work; maybe because a few strands had worked themselves free, giving it a careless look. He was clean shaven too, which Steve didn't expect given the general fad for a five o'clock shadow, but it accentuated the smile he was directing at a customer. A guy could stop someone dead at twenty paces with a smile like that.

"You okay, man? You're staring." Clint asked, not bothering to keep the amusement out of his voice. Steve looked back at him with a glare.

"I was not staring." Steve protested, though he knew he had been and that made him feel guilty because he'd broken up with Alex on Saturday, barely two days ago.

"Yeah, you were. It's alright, I'm not judging. It's free to look, right?" Clint smirked into his black coffee.

"Shut up."

Clint pantomimed locking his lips and throwing away the key.

Of course, nothing could actually keep Clint silent for longer than 30 seconds but he did at least change the subject. He told Steve the story of their weekend escapade when their youngest had mistaken his mother's secret stash of wine coolers for soda. Steve couldn't stop laughing at Clint's impression of his drunken 7 year-old. Clint was always good at distraction and if Steve bolstered it with discreet glances at the friendly barista every now and then, well… then nobody needed to know but him.

Clint finished his story, checked his watch and sighed.

"Ah, the weekend is officially over." He lamented.

"Nothing last forever," Steve commiserated.

"Alright, I'm gonna use the can and then we should probably get going." Clint said as he stood. Steve nodded and started collecting their cups together into a little tower in the centre of the table. He wasn't sure if he was being helpful, but it made him feel better.

He was just shrugging on his jacket when he spotted the napkin still peeking out from beneath his cup. He glanced around for the barista who'd written it, half-hoping he had come closer now that was Clint was gone; or a least be looking in his direction. Of course, he hadn't moved. He was laughing with a brunette girl behind the counter. Steve wondered if they were flirting.

He looked back at the note. It seemed rude to leave it there to be thrown away, especially if the one who cleared the table ended up being the barista who'd written it. He pulled it free from beneath the balancing mugs and quickly folded into his pocket before Clint came back. He told himself he was just being polite, that was all.

He'd made up his mind to thank the guy too,but by the time Clint had come back he was alread busy with new customers and it would be way too awkward to interrupt. He settled for hoping the barista would look up as they passed, but he didn't. Instead the female barista gave them a cheery goodbye as they past her and into the winter chill of Queens.

Work was a ten-minute stroll away though a small park and then a plaza of office buildings. The Maria Academy for Gifted Children (also know as Tony Stark's MAGiC school) had an extensive campus for an urban academy, but Steve guessed the Stark fortune could afford a lot of decent real estate. It was an impressive place, made even more impressive by the fact that 'gifted' did not actually mean 'monetarily'. A large majority of their students were scholarship students, which would be impossible for any investor with pockets shallower than Tony Stark. (Although, it didn't hurt that Principal Potts was particularly skilled at convincing other rich philanthropists that their school was a worthy cause for tax write-offs.)

Even though it was half past ten, the school grounds were still milling with students. As recent studies had proved teenagers were more productive later in the day, classes now started at 11 and finished at 6 every day. Steve wasn't really sure if it made that big of a difference, but he certainly appreciated the lie-ins.

Clint and Steve split at the school gates, Clint heading to science complex for his Applied Calculus class whilse Steve meandered towards the Art block. It was usually only a few minutes walk to reach his classroom, but today he was intercepted by the gym teacher. Natasha Romanov was a stunningly beautiful woman of terrifying capability. How someone with five black belts, certifications in almost every firearm in existence and 5 years experience as a Primaballerina ended up teaching surly teenagers, Steve had never been able to fathom. How someone of those qualifications actually seemed to enjoy teaching those surly teenagers was even less fathomable.

"So I heard you have an admirer." She smirked in lieu of hello.

"Clint text you." Rogers surmised; he'd never understood the relationship between Clint and Natasha, only that it was Clint that had got her the job at MAGiC and that they never kept secrets from each other. Even when those secrets were other people's.

"Of course." Her grin was reminiscent of a shark who'd smelt blood. " A hot barista - bit young for you don't you think?"

"He wasn't young. Late twenties at least." Steve argued before he realised that wasn't what he should have been protesting.

"And working in a coffee shop? Not a great sign for something long-term, but still perfect for a rebound." She winked at him salaciously and he didn't bother asking how she knew he needed a rebound.

"There is no rebound. There is no _anything_ here. He was just a guy trying to be nice." Steve retorted firmly.

"Yes, and I bet I know how you'd like to thank him," she countered mockingly, but there was no malice in it. Steve had come to realise (after a few months of friendship and a long conversation with Clint) that this was how Nat showed affection.

"As much as I appreciate the invasion of my love life, Nat, I have a class in twenty minutes that I need to prep for." He told her.

"Have it your way." She conceded, "but we should drink this weekend."

Steve groaned but knew there was no use arguing, "Friday night, please. It took me two days to get over the last time."

Natasha laughed, "You're getting old."

Steve's first group was his most difficult class. Grade Nine were difficult not only because of they were more interested in phones than art but because it was the age of unchecked hormones. Half of the class erupted into giddy giggles whenever he spoke to them, which was irritating and mildly disturbing to contemplate. After an hour of that, Steve was more than ready for his much calmer class of twelfth graders.

All of them already had projects they were working on for their end-of-term assessments and required very little direction so he was sat at his desk, trying to mark Art History essays. Unfortunately it was hard to concentrate on a poorly-composed report on the effect of Picasso's abandonment of classical style when his mind kept sliding back to Barista Guy and his note.

There were a lot of questions rolling around in his head, such as 'I wish I'd seen his name tag so I didn't have to keep calling him Barista Guy' and ' _You're like pizza -_ what kind of pick-up line was that?' and, more importantly, had the guy really just been trying to be nice, or was Steve supposed to read something into it? Steve couldn't even tell if the guy was gay; he had a terrible gaydar. And even if he was, maybe the guy had just been doing his #actofkindness of the day or whatever the new fad was now. He'd probably posted a picture of it on Instagram. If he'd signed his note, Steve could have tried to find his Instagram account to check.

Fortunately, before it went any further, Steve was interrupted from his thoughts of internet stalking by one of his students.

He went back because he liked the coffee. That's all.

"Oh hey, it's you. Where's your friend today?" The barista asked, his smile wide and genuine. . Now that he was close Steve could see that the sleeves of his black uniform t-shirt stretched interestingly over his broad arms and that the silver name tag pined to his chest read 'Bucky'. His hair was in a ponytail today.

"Ah, he's got the school run today,"Steve answered, trying not to feel awkward. "I… erm… so I just wanted to say thanks. For yesterday. The note. It cheered me up." He smiled because he didn't want to come off too serious, which would be creepy, but it felt a bit more like a grimace.

"No problem, we've all been there. Break ups are tough." Bucky commiserated with a sympathetic smile. Then he waved towards the menu board pinned on the wall behind him "So what can I get you?"

"Just a latte, please. Regular's fine." Steve tried to ignore the disappointed feeling he got from the generic response. What had he expected really?

"Sure, to drink here or take out?" Bucky asked, already going through the motions on his register's computer screen.

"Take out." Steve refused to let himself sit on one of the comfortable sofas and stare at the barista pathetically as he drank his coffee. He'd done enough time as the moon-eyed loser in high school.

"Sure, any syrups? Caramel, hazelnut, vanilla?"

"No thanks, I like my coffee to taste of coffee. Or at least a very milky kind of coffee." Steve conceded.

Bucky laughed; it was the kind of laugh that made you grin along with it, kind of wild and unmeasured. He took Steve's payment and then gestured to the bookshelves, "Why don't you check out some books? I'll bring it over to you when I'm done."

"Oh, ok. Sure. I'll have a look." Steve wandered over to the nearest bookcase as the sound of the coffee grinding and milk starting to be steamed. He ran his finger along the spine of a careworn Dickens, which was nestled alongside a modern thriller and a thick book on the proper maintenance of vegetable gardens. There didn't seem to be a system, just a gentle kind of anarchy.

He was thumbing through the gardening book, purely out of curiosity, when the barista appeared at his shoulder.

"Here you are, one regular latte to go." Bucky announced.

"Thanks. Well I better go to work." Steve gave that small, reluctant smile that always seemed to accompany those words.

"You work near here? Whereabouts?"

"The Maria Academy, do you know it?"

Bucky looked surprised, "MAGiC? Yeah, of course. Wow. Are you a teacher?"

"Yeah, just art, though." Steve admitted, a little deprecatingly.

"Just art? Art's the best class: no lectures,no books, getting messy with permission, what's not to like?" Bucky grinned and Steve could just imagine him as a teenager starting paint fights and drawing rude doodles in other students' sketchbooks.

"Well, I have to teach art history too, so it's not all watercolours and paper-maché." Steve confessed with a laugh.

"Aww, that's a shame. So do you have a free period now?"Bucky asked, glancing at his watch as if double checking it was nine thirty.

"Ah no, we don't start classes until 11."

"Damn! I wish my school had done that. Might not be doing my degree ten years later than everyone else if they had." Steve wanted to ask about that but the front door opened and a young couple came in. "Sorry, man, gotta go. Enjoy your coffee!"

It wasn't until Steve had already left the café that he noticed the writing on his cup.

 _No syrup - good choice. You're sweet enough :P_


	2. Chapter 2

**Bucky**

"I saw that," Darcy chimed up as the last of their sudden stream of customers, a group of businessman in high spirits who'd mercifully all taken their coffee black, left the counter and took a seat. They were booting up laptops that suggested they were probably going to make a single coffee each last at least two hours.

"Saw what? The guy's choice in ties? It was kind hard to miss." Bucky replied, throwing a glare at the offending tie-wearer, who seemed to be the leader of the group, whilst he was wiping spilt coffee grounds off the counter.

"Not _them_ ," Out of the corner of his eye he saw he wave her hand irritably, " _You're sweet enough…_ That's real cute."

Bucky resisted the urge to smile as he throw the grounds into the bin; he'd actually almost forgotten about it in the onslaught of cappucinos and double whip mocha frappes that had come after. He turned to face Darcy so she could appreciate his eye roll and sighed, "It was a joke."

"You hate that joke," Darcy responded bluntly as she started putting away the last patch of washing up.

"I hate customers making that joke like they think it's original." Bucky specified. He watched her for a moment before she demanded he come over to help sort the dainty cake forks from the teaspoons and butter knives.

"You know when the girls say it to you, they're trying to flirt, right?" Darcy informed him, pointing with a knife and raising her eyebrows.

"It's not flirting - the guy just went through a break-up; I wanted to cheer him up." Bucky shrugged, pushing as much nonchalance into his stance as possible. It wasn't that he was exactly lying; it would be a pretty sleazy move to go after someone who'd just had a break-up. However, as much as he didn't want to be a dick, he also wasn't blind. He turned to age jokes to try and wiggle out of the situation, "Despite what you young people think, trying to be nice to someone doesn't instantly mean you're flirting."

"Would you stop with the young jokes, I'm like three years younger than you!" Darcy protested, making Bucky laugh. "Look, all I'm saying is if he'd been making googly eyes at me last time, I'd be all over him in a heartbeat. The guy's cute, blonde and stacked. What's not to like?" Darcy spread her hands out as if opening the question to a crowd.

"As nobody saw these 'googly eyes' except you, and you're in the flush of puberty-" Darcy thumped him in the arm.

"I said stop it!" She demanded irritably.

"Ok, ok! I surrender! Look, the guy just had a break up, Darce; I was just trying to give him a laugh."

"I bet that's not all you'd like to give him." Darcy winked outrageously and darted off to clear a table before Bucky had a chance to retaliate.

"Is Darcy teasing you again?" Wanda asked, her unmistakeable accent , coming from behind the floor-to-ceiling bookcase that separated the bar from most of the sitting area. It was a backless grid structure, filled with hardbacks, plants and travel souvenirs, and with plenty of gaps for people-watching. She was peering through one such gap now, a bronze antique watering can in hand.

Wanda was a contradiction. She was soft-spoken, but had a temper like a firecracker; she was meticulous about anything she made, but she hated order; she loved the peace of green, growing things, but got restless and irritable when she wasn't busy. Sometimes she could be a difficult boss.

"No more than usual. At least I'm never bored around her." Bucky conceded.

"One day, it'll be her turn and we'll be the ones teasing her. I'm looking forward to it." Wanda grinned wickedly. It was the kind of grin that made him believe the stories she told about her pre-marital life.

"You're a scary woman, Wanda." Bucky informed her.

"And don't you forget it." She responded, which came out more sinister than she probably intended in her Slavic accent.

It got busy after that and it was 3 o'clock before he knew it. He made his goodbyes and wrapped himself up in his big black coat and the charcoal scarf Wanda had gave him when she'd been going through her brief knitting stage. He let his hair down so he could jam a grey beanie on his head because there was nothing he hated more than cold ears.

He took a bus to the VAC, the Veteran Activity Centre, set up by Boots on the Ground NY, where he had attended and now volunteered since he'd left the army 3 years ago. Sam Wilson, his counsellor and friend, was already preparing for the 4 p.m. PTSD support meeting.

"Hey, man," Bucky smiled as he came into the room, "How's it going?"

"Bucky, hey! It's good. Are you here to help set up?" Sam asked, straightening up from where he'd been putting out chairs.

"Yeah, if there's anything for me to do." Bucky confirmed.

"There's always something for an extra pair of hands to do," Sam declared.

"Well, my hands are happy to oblige."

People started trickling in from 3.45 onwards. Vets, mostly, some family members, some friends, all affected by PTSD in some way. Some Bucky knew by name, old-timers who'd been coming for a while, some only by face because they'd never spoken up. He was speaking to Rev. Kev, another old Marine before he'd become a man of the cloth when he heard someone stay his name.

"Sergeant Barnes? Is that you?"

It had been a long time since anyone had called him a sergeant. It was a strange feeling to hear the moniker again. He turned around to identify the speaker.

"Sitwell?" Jasper Sitwell had a gained a few pounds and started wearing glasses but his signature bald head and broad nose were unmistakeable.

"I know a reunion when I see one. I'll get out of your hair, kids." Rev Kev declared with a smile and clap on Bucky's arm. He disappeared towards the powdered donuts.

"Sorry to interrupt. I almost didn't recognise you with that hair; that's certainly not army regulation," Sitwell joked with a wry smile and then patted his own stomach reproachfully, "Then again, neither is this, huh?"

"I guess not," Bucky concurred with a grin and shook hands with his old unit member. He'd never had any strong feelings towards Sitwell, besides finding him a bit of an oddball, but it was strangely nice to see him again, even if he was a reminder of a bad patch in his army time, "Wow, it's been, what, five years?"

"About that." Sitwell agreed, "Haven't seen you since you transferred out suddenly. What happened?"

Bucky's grin turned a little forced, "Nothing." He answered a little too quickly, "I mean, in the end. Just a promotion opportunity that didn't pan out," he lied. "So, when did you get out?"

"About a year ago. I was in D.C. for a while but moved here last month. I'm working for a private security firm now, executive role. I'm hoping _my_ promotion opportunity will pan out." Sitwell added in that dry, straight way that made it hard to tell if it was meant to be a joke or not. Bucky chuckled anyway, just in case.

Looking around for an escape, he noticed that people were finally starting to sit."Well, I think the meeting's about to start. How about we grab some seats?"

He was shamefully grateful when Sitwell said nothing but goodbye to him for the rest of the evening.

Wednesday morning went by quickly. He opened the cafe at seven and dealt with the steady stream of regulars until Tom came in at 8.30. Wanda started at nine, stalking in and setting up a double espresso before she said anything polysyllabic to anyone. After that ten rolled by swiftly and Bucky was clearing tables when he happened to see the teacher from the day before waiting at the crossing on the other side of the street.

He quick-timed his tray of dirty things into the back room and before darting back to the counter where Wanda was wiping down surfaces, waiting for their next customer.

"Ah… hey, why don't you get the ordering done while it's quiet?" He suggested, ignoring the little voice in his head telling him he was being an idiot, and apparently, a sleazy one at that. He was still pleased when Wanda agreed and disappeared into her office just as the teacher came in. The man smiled a little shyly when he saw Bucky at the counter.

"Hey."

"Hey ,regular latte?"

The man's smile grew a little wider and more natural, making crinkles at the corner of his blue eyes, "Yeah, that's right. You must have a good memory."

"It's a skill," Bucky acceded as though he remembered the orders of every customer who came through the door more than once. He was really glad that Darcy wasn't in today, otherwise he would've never heard the end of this. He rang up the guy's order and got the espresso shot started. Then he grabbed an empty cup and a pen.

"What should it be today…?" He asked, half to himself, tapping the end of the pen against his chin, "Ah… I've got it!" He scribbled, _If you were a steak you would be well done._

"Do you have a stock of terrible puns in your mind, or do you make them up as you go along?" The man inquired, leaning against the counter as he watched Bucky write.

" A little bit of both," Bucky replied as he pulled the milk out of the fridge.

"So… busy day?"

It wasn't the most imaginative conversation starter, but Bucky couldn't help the grin it caused, "Not really, pretty standard." He replied whilst he tested the calibration of the milk jug scales - Wanda hated waste, so everything was to the gram in her cafe. "Ready for a day of shaping the minds of America's youth?"

The man laughed, a warm, honest sound that was impossible to dislike, "Something like that, I guess. I'm not sure how much shaping will be involved, my job's pretty much crowd control if I'm honest."

"I can imagine," Bucky sympathised before the sound of steaming milk cut their conversation off. He watched the swirl with an expert eye, judging the temperature with the back of his hand until it was hot enough. Then the familiar routine, twist off the steam, tap the jug to the counter, grab the cup. Espresso, milk, a quick flick to finish off the easy heart pattern, slide the cup to the customer.

"Thanks." The man turned the cup to read the inscription. " _If you were steak_ … really?"

"It's a classic," Bucky countered defensively."

"I'm pretty sure it's not," The man replied, snapping a lid in place, "Or if it is, it really shouldn't be."

Bucky laughed, "Well they say the way to person's heart is through their stomach…"

"I think that means cook for them, not compare them to food items." The man argued laughingly.

"Oh is that what it means? They should really be more explicit." Bucky grinned and shrugged. The man laughed and was about to reply when the bell above the door heralded the arrival of a gaggle of middle-aged women.

"Ah, I better go…" The man said, "See you around?"

"Yeah, see you next time." Bucky replied and, with one last smile, the man left. The little sleazy part of his brain, the part that didn't care the guy had just had break-up, unhelpfully pointed out that it was a great view.


End file.
